


Hypothetical

by gwinne



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Adoption, Infertility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 08:37:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15020810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwinne/pseuds/gwinne
Summary: dealing with the mess that was Per Manum and William's adoption, long before what happened in Season 11





	Hypothetical

Life, she's decided, is a series of moments that you never thought it possible to imagine.

Eight years ago, she attended her godson's birthday party and decided she'd never be a mother. She tried to picture herself holding an infant and a diaper bag with a cell phone to her ear. One of the three always dropped. Even a hypothetical baby wasn't safe in her arms.

Eight years have brought her here, standing guard at her small son's crib, watching him suck a pacifier and wave his chubby arms. Her son. She never imagined she'd be a mother and she certainly never imagined that she would contemplate giving him up.

* * *

"Boys or girls?" Mulder asks, shoveling another French fry in his mouth.

"Excuse me?" There are conversations with vague referents and there are conversations with no referents. Recently, Mulder's been choosing the latter more than usual. It throws her off. These days everything about him throws her off. "For the uber-Scullies," he says. "You've obviously thought about having kids. So what do you want, boys or girls?"

A week ago, in a place called Home, they sat on a park bench talking about deformed children and the biological impetus to reproduce. That was hypothetical. This is personal.

"I haven't really given it a lot of thought. Our jobs aren't exactly conducive to settling down and raising a family."

"You've never thought about it?" Honest-to-goodness shock registers in his voice.

"Boys, I guess," she says, just because this is not a conversation she ever imagined having and she's not sure she wants to have it now. "I mean, I'm not exactly the type of woman who'd teach a daughter to put on nail polish and bake chocolate chip cookies."

"No, but you could tell her the best outfits to wear with Kevlar and a holster."

"True." She takes a sip of Diet Coke. "I just think I'd know how to relate to a son better. When I was growing up I hung out with my brothers more than with Melissa." He nods. "How about you? Sons or daughters?" She already knows the answer. A flash of Mulder with a pink-swaddled newborn in the crook of his arm. How small she is against his tanned forearm. The baby stirs and he sways softly in the dimmed room. She doesn't know how it will happen, what events will occur that will allow him to have this child, just that he will.

"One of each, I think. A boy and then a girl."

She raises the corners of her mouth in what she hopes comes across as a smile. "I suppose we're either bound to reproduce our families or to reject them."

"So you're saying you don't picture yourself as a stay-at-home mom with a brood of four trampling through a two-story suburban house?" He swipes a fry through a puddle of ketchup. This time she snatches it from his hand.

"Something like that, yeah."

* * *

William is almost asleep, sucking contentedly. She debates whether or not to wake him for a last feeding for the night. When they got home from the hospital, she'd taken him into the nursery and given him a bottle while Monica and John spoke in hushed tones in the kitchen. The baby shouldn't be hungry, not with a belly full of milk, but she needs to feel his warmth against her skin. She'd never imagined that holding a child to her breast would be the best part of her day, her life. "Wake up, little guy," she says, stroking the baby-fine hair over his ear. Blue eyes flutter open, and she picks him up. Nine months of midnight feedings rush back and she feels the first drops of milk wet the cups of her bra. They've begun the slow process of weaning, but she only needs to think of her son for her breasts to fill. She wonders how long she'll remember the tug of his mouth on her nipples. They settle into the rocking chair and her son begins to drink. Down the hall, Monica talks on the phone to Skinner.

* * *

Not possible, she thinks, staring at the checkout forms for the clinic. This is not possible. She'd gone to her ob/gyn for a routine checkup and ended up with this: diagnosis 628.0: infertility, female (anovulation).

At first the doctor said sometimes it takes a little while for a cycle to regulate itself after cancer, after substantial weight loss. But when she went back through three years of calendars she realized something she hadn't allowed herself to contemplate. She hasn't had a regular period since they returned her. Her once predictable 28.5 day cycles had turned into something else entirely. 14 days, 63 days, 22 days, 91 days. Periods that aren't periods in the clinical sense. The truth calculated in used tampons and sanitary pads: she hasn't ovulated in over three years. And that son she told Mulder she hadn't really thought about waves to her from a distant shoreline. An infertility diagnosis shouldn't matter to a woman who never imagined herself as a mother; now having a child is all she thinks about. In grocery store checkout lines, on airplanes, in doctor's cramped offices. She hasn't just lost a child, she's lost a lifetime of possibilities.

* * *

She tells herself she believes in a woman's right to choose. She knows no woman should be saddled with a child she doesn't want, not after what they did to her. And she knows no woman should be denied the right to have the child she wants, not after what they did to her. And here she is with a nine-month-old miraculous conception in her arms trying to choose his fate. Their fate. Here she is with the child she never thought she wanted, the child she never thought she could have, the child she wanted more than anything in the world, the child she knows she needs to give up to protect. She sobs so fiercely William wakes howling, and she clutches him tighter against her chest.

* * *

This has to be the strangest conversation she and Mulder have ever had. One minute he's in a hallway saying that he pocketed a vial of her ova and the next she's asking him to father her child. How quickly an infertility diagnosis vanishes when months worth of potential children roll in metal tube. Already she's halfway there.

"Remember that day we were in the diner and you asked me if I wanted boys or girls?" They're on the couch in her apartment, talking over a bottle of shiraz.

"Sure."

"Once I met Emily, I knew for sure."

"Knew what?"

"That my life would not be complete without a child."

"I'm so sorry, Scully. If I could give you that. . . if I could take back what they did to you. . ."

"What if you could?" If this were a game of chess, she thinks, I'd have him in two moves.

"You know I can't, Scully."

"But what if you could. I mean, hypothetically."

"I would do anything to let you be a mother. Even if it means letting you go."

"Thank you," she says softly. "You can't know what that means to me, to hear you say that." She unclasps her hands and taps one against his knee. "I was given a chance today, Mulder. A chance I never thought I'd have."

"What kind of chance?" he swallows hard, and she knows the moment he understands where this conversation is headed. And she knows what he will say.

"A chance to have a child. To have *my* child. And that's a chance I'd like to share with you."

* * *

Giving birth in the backwoods of Georgia was never an option when she asked Mulder to help her conceive. But there she was in a brass bed covered in blood and sweat and tears while Mulder palmed the top of their son's head.

"He's mine," she said, "he's mine."

"No one," Mulder whispered, nuzzling her cheek, "no one will take him from you. I promise."

But in their son's short life he has been abducted and worshipped and feared, hated and injected and used. Why, she imagines his adoptive mother saying, why would anyone want to give this child up? What's wrong with him? What's wrong with her?

She refuses to spend their last moments together grieving. Instead, she holds William on her lap reading him a book about families. There are all kinds of families in this neighborhood-- single moms and stepparents and adopted kids. It was the first book she'd ever read to him, when she wondered if her son would ever know his father. Now she wonders if he will remember his mother, what he will think of her decision.

The baby is fussy and he slaps the cardboard pages and shifts in her lap. She turns him toward her and stands him up on her thighs, supporting his weight with her hands. He'll be standing in a matter of weeks and she won't be there to see it. She stifles a sob in her throat. William opens his mouth wide and smiles. He places his fat hand against her cheek.

This is the only choice she's ever had. The only choice she can make.

 

END

* * *

Acknowledgments: to Bonetree, for making me sit down to write, and for being there. And to Ellen, for more than choice.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gradually moving my old fic (2000-2003) from Gossamer. I'm editing where necessary but leaving the stories themselves alone. None were originally intended to be AU but post-eps for episodes that aired Seasons 7-9. This story was originally written and posted in January 2003.


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